


You Better Not Pout (I'm Telling You Why)

by Annie D (scaramouche)



Series: John McClane is an Asshole [3]
Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Flirting, Humor, M/M, Plot What Plot, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-12
Updated: 2010-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-06 03:45:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scaramouche/pseuds/Annie%20D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt decides to confront John, and then there's fighting words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Better Not Pout (I'm Telling You Why)

Matt is standing a couple of steps away from McClane’s front door. He is high on three cans of Red Bull and the half-dozen gummi snakes he’d eaten on the train on the way over. He’s quite proud that he’s managed to limit his aspartame poisoning for the day, despite the temptation to stock up as much courage of the artificial sugar variety for this moment.

He takes a deep breath and takes the final few steps.

Gentlemen, to your battlestations.

McClane opens the door not long after the final knock – Matt isn’t really sure how long he’s been standing there, but it feels like _forever_, which in his state of mind could mean ten seconds or ten hours, who knows?

“Hey,” McClane says. He is surprised, which is exactly the reason that Matt chose not to let him know that he was coming.

It’s part of the _plan_.

“You gonna let me in, or what?” Matt asks.

McClane’s eyebrows go up. “You been snorting the Kool-Aid today, kid?”

Matt looks at his hands: sure enough, they’re shaking. But, strangely, he doesn’t feel embarrassed about it. He knows he _should_ be embarrassed, especially when he catches the amused look McClane’s giving him as he walks into the apartment, but the synapses in his brain are focused on other matters.

Matt’s been here before. Well, sure, he’s been _here _here – he’s seen the insides of McClane’s apartment god knows how many times – but he’s also been _here_, standing on a precarious precipice between choices. This situation is different from last time, though. There’s no eminent tech-apocalypse just around the corner; no terrorists that need to be terrorized.

“To what do I owe the honor?” McClane asks.

“I called Lucy.” This is Matt’s opening gambit.

It pays off: McClane’s face doesn’t exactly _pale_, since he’s the kind of guy who jumps off trucks on to a jet fighters without batting an eyelash, but it does whatever the equivalent of _going pale_ exists for people like McClane. Matt sees it, because he’s had a couple of good months getting better at reading the signs.

“Yeah?” McClane asks warily.

“She had some very nice things to say about you.”

McClane starts to move away to the living area; a blatant defensive maneuver. “You know, kid, sarcasm really isn’t one your strong points.”

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Matt says.

That makes McClane stop and look at him.

They stand there, staring at each other like idiots for a long moment, then all of a sudden there’s a shift in the air,  McClane’s wariness turning into curiosity. Matt figures that he must be sending off different signals today (not that he believes that he was giving off _other_ signals before, whatever McClane may have said on the matter), because that curiosity slowly turns into cautious amusement.

“I think you do,” McClane says, one corner of his mouth curling upwards.

There’s a horrible second where Matt almost falls backwards in the face of that _look_. His mouth is dry, his throat is too tight, and his fingers are fluttering with the urge to cover himself – whatever the hell it is McClane sees when he looks at him.

What was the plan again? Right.

“No, I really don’t,” Matt says, voice trembling only a _teensy weensy _bit. “Why don’t you tell me what your intentions are?”

McClane barks a laugh at that. “You shitting me?”

“No,” Matt says. “We’re friends. At least, I _think_ we’re friends. And what I _think_ you want could fuck it all up.”

McClane shrugs. “It could. Or we could just, I don’t know, be adults about the whole thing.”

“Yeah?” Matt cants his head stubbornly. “And how’s that been going for you?”

The words come out sounding harsher than Matt means, but they just bounce off their target, who is smirking again, easy and relaxed. The lean of McClane’s body against the wall is an open invitation and he looks… almost handsome. Almost. Maybe. Could be. In the right light. If there’s any such light that can be flattering for someone like McClane.

“This may not be a big deal for you,” Matt breathes slowly, “but it is for me. This is… new. Very new to me. You better respect that.”

McClane frowns, unsure where this is going next. “Okay…”

“I have to know that you’ll fucking respect that,” Matt repeats, sharper this time.

There’s a sigh, and now McClane’s rubbing the back of his neck, face gone soft.

The plan is to throw McClane off-balance so that Matt can regain some of his lost footing. The plan is to be direct, to be confrontational. McClane does well with confrontations, better than Matt anyway, but the point is that McClane knows that _Matt_ isn’t the sort of guy to push, so he won’t be expecting an aggressive stance from him.

That’s the idea, anyway.

Matt isn’t even sure that he really _wants_, the way he thinks McClane wants. At the same time, Matt’s not so unaware of himself to deny that he’d _really_ enjoyed the other day’s kissing. It hadn’t just been curiosity (Matt’s thought about it and he’s pretty sure that if he _were_ to get curious, it would be with someone significantly safer than John punch-first-leave-the-questioning-to-others McClane), so there has to be _something_ there – something cultivated quietly over the past couple of months without Matt noticing on a conscious level.

On a subconscious level, though, he must have, because he’s here, right now, having this conversation.

“I don’t know what to say, Matt,” McClane admits. “I made a move ‘cause I thought that’s what you wanted, but if it isn’t, I’m not gonna twist your arm or anything.”

Matt huffs, irritated. “That’s not what I meant.”

That gets him a confused frown. “What _did_ you mean?”

Matt had hoped that it wouldn’t come to this.

Oh, he’d known that it would _more than likely_ come to this, but he’d hoped otherwise anyway.

It’s four strides across the room, McClane straightening up and unfolding his arms at each step until Matt’s up in his space, taking that head in his hands and meeting McClane’s mouth with his own.

_John’s_ mouth.

The least he can do while kissing the guy is at least think of him with his first name.

Well, _fuck_, he’s kissing John.

It’s really weird at first, because John’s mouth is thin and hard.

Matt’s also used to the smell girls have when they’re this close – girls smell great, even when they’re not wearing perfume or whatever.

John doesn’t even smell like soap. He smells like dust and dry air.

Then John’s lips part and there’s tongue, _ho boy_. Matt meets that tongue, trying to get used to its persistent sweep into his mouth, but it’s just too strong and his jaw starts to protest. He backs off a bit, and John senses that, easing up immediately but not drawing back, and this is better.

John’s mouth now feels softer, somehow, but there’s no mistaking who he is, what he is.

He’s _very_ good at kissing, though.

Matt could get used to it.

Then John’s hands land on his waist and Matt jumps back in a panic.

It’s a small miracle he didn’t hit John in the face with the way he was flailing.

When Matt looks up, John immediately turns on the familiar stoic façade, but there was a second just before where he’d been laid bare.

“You want me,” Matt says. His voice has a lilt of surprise in it, and it takes an additional second for Matt to realize that he _is_ surprised. He hadn’t expected that kind of look on John’s face – he hadn’t known that John was even capable looking like that.

It shouldn’t be possible that a kiss should make John look so _wrecked_.

For the first time since they met, all those bullets and running and awkward pauses in between and after, Matt feels powerful.

“You _want_ me,” Matt repeats. It’s a goddamn rush to know that, that’s what it is.

“Yeah,” John shrugs. “I thought we already covered that.”

Matt snorts. “No, we hadn’t, actually. You’re such a dick, you know that? You made it sound like it was _my _fault, but it isn’t. Not entirely, at least.”

John narrows his eyes dangerously. “What’re you saying?”

The rush is getting to his head, making him feel dizzy and lightheaded, but it’s good – _oh,_ so good. Matt crosses his arms, his breath now back under control. “Make it worth my while. You know I haven’t… _ever_… So I think you better convince me that it’ll be worth it. You’re not even my type.”

The glint in John’s eyes is different now.

There aren’t many instances where John doesn’t mind being pushed, but Matt pegs on quick that this is one of them.

“How do you know you even have a type if you haven’t tried anything before?” John challenges.

“That’s your argument?” Matt scoffs. This is a heady kind of danger, but he’s soaking it in, reveling the way it twists his stomach. “Can’t say I’m impressed.”

“How about I—” John goddamn _prowls_ towards him, but freezes when Matt points a stern finger at him.

“Not like that.” Matt’s finger isn’t even shaking. He takes a deep breath, letting the finger fall and trusting that John won’t close the distance between them.

He doesn’t.

“You know how to contact me,” Matt says cheerfully, heading for the door. “Assuming you haven’t smashed your cell again while I wasn’t lookin’.”

John’s stare burns the back of his neck like a brand, but he doesn’t give chase.

Matt practically skips all the way home.


End file.
